Black Sun - Poem by Satish Verma
Witch hazel jumps the
gun. Questions arise.
Why the cuckoo will not sing today?
I am drumming the wall
raised between us,
opening a small window towards the sea.
Strange things happen.
Full moon was bleeding
Astringent. I call for the mountain's music.
This fractured statecraft.
You become a stone after a blast;
moving towards the periphery.
Half-naked a statuette
was walking in night to find a
mortuary where Apollo was laid to rest.
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